“At last, at last,” said Paoletti with satisfaction. “Here is the spark I was looking for.”
“No—do not suppose there is any particular virtue in it; it is only that my little fair-haired child—or toy—with her angel’s eyes, has a wonderful charm for me. I fancy I love her, and should love her more if I had her more constantly with me. I hear she was near dying of croup. I long to have her in my arms. What do you say to this?”
“I say that there is no soil, however barren, from which no flower can spring.”
“This has nothing to do with flowers.—What I want to tell you is that as I passed through New York, I saw, in a shop window, a little toy carriage full of dolls and pulled by a string, and I bought it to bring to her.”
Paoletti smiled.
“I see all your pride, your indifference to your wife, your hatred of your rival, the law-suit and possible compromise; I see your atrocious atheism, your passions, your inhuman cynicism,—your love for the child, and the little carriage pulled by a string,”—Cimarra had it in his hand.—“But I do not see what I can do in the matter.”
“Now we have come to the point, to what, as I said, is urgent. I am most anxious to know what they are plotting.—Is he here to-night? I was told he had some friends to see him. I am perfectly convinced that you know it; my wife is sure to have told you.”
“To have told me? I believe the lady has a particular dislike to me.”
“You must know through the Condesa de Vera, who is my wife’s most intimate friend; she, if I mistake not, is one of your flock.”